Volume 1 Issue 3

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“Well, that’s just rubbish, if you ask me.” No one wanted to ask Sven anything, but that never stopped him from perching on his beloved soapbox. His fleshy face grew red from exertion. The spark in his piggy eyes lit up as Francesca observed that petulant smile she knew all too well spread slowly across his face. God, she always had the worrying desire to smack it off his face when it appeared. All was in place for his moment of glory. For Sven loved nothing more than sharing his enlightened worldviews with the rest of the staff, secure in the knowledge that his opinions were the only ones that mattered. “Are you kidding me?” Sven sneered and made eye contact with all those around the table. “Review the résumés and work plans for staff who haven’t been promoted in the past ten years? Especially if they’re women? What kind of half-baked gender policy is that?” His snort of disdain reverberated off the tasteful taupe walls of the executive meeting room. There it was, that annoying half-smile again. Francesca restrained her hand under the table, afraid her fist might have ideas of its own if she allowed it free.

When she’d left Naples behind eight years ago, she’d been so convinced an international working environment and enlightened northern views would make her career so much easier. But that was before meeting Sven and countless other cookie cutter models. She forced herself to concentrate on the inane words issuing forth from Sven’s fleshy mouth. “And what kind of lesson is that, for crying out loud? Let’s just reward mediocrity, for Christ’s sake. If you ask me…”Calm, Francesca.Don’t let your face give you away. It was hard enough to attend these meetings each week as the token woman, forced to watch the male management ensure their privileged fortress did not fall under attack by the hoi polloi. “If you ask me,” Sven droned on. “Anyone who has remained in the same position for ten years clearly deserves to be there. He or she simply lacks initiative, good old-fashioned gumption. And I’ll go one step further…” She clenched her teeth as his chubby hand pounded down on the table to emphasize the brilliant observation he was just on the cusp of delivering. Francesca thought of the generations of peasant stock who toiled away in the unforgiving fields of Scandinavia. All that sweat and backbreaking labor, the years of sacrifices…and for what? To spawn the likes of Sven, who now sat at the head of this meeting table feeling so superior? “I’ll suggest that they’re damned lucky to even have a job in this economy. Instead of complaints to personnel…” He fixed Francesca with his icy gaze. “They should be thanking us. After all…” Damn it, the petulant-little-boy-smile had returned. Couldn’t she just pitch him out the window and get it over with? Just one quick shove followed by a brief splatter on the busy Brussels streets below. “…you know what they say, the cream always rises to the top.”You bastard. She noted the polite laughter in the room in response to his booming, confident belly laugh. Of course, Sven. Pure coincidence that your wife’s uncle became Prime Minister, and you moved into this position overnight. Everyone knows your talent had nothing to do with your meteoric rise. The cream always rises to the top, my foot… When Francesca raised her eyes, Sven was looking squarely at her. “Oh, Francesca. There’s some staff appreciation event tomorrow. The big boss wants a woman on stage to give us a little pep talk, tell us all about the rosy outlook for women working here.” He rolled his eyes and offered his can-you-believe-the-crap-I-have-to-put-up-with? smile to all the men sitting around the table before turning his gaze back to her. “You’re from personnel, go cook up some figures and make us look good tomorrow. Hehehe…Okay, folks. Meeting adjourned. Back to work.” * “Well, you are in charge of personnel, Francesca. I would assume presenting the gender balance of your organization would be part of your job,” Philippe said as he poured wine into their glasses. “That’s not really the point, is it? I’d be happy to present the situation. Our hiring practices are atrocious. Yes, of course we’re international; that’s obvious. But we seem to always recruit from the same tennis and golf clubs. It’s been ages since we’ve hired a talented woman…and it’s certainly not that we don’t receive enough impressive CVs. The promising women we do have languish in the lower-graded positions, while every male moron shoots past them up the ladder.” Francesca could already feel the headache coming on. The headaches began soon after she’d been ‘promoted’ to the personnel position. Francesca had been happy in her job as an economist, overseeing European development projects in Africa. But she’d long ago hit the glass ceiling, watching a string of dim-witted men being named chief economist as she slaved away, thanklessly, in her windowless office. When the agency was criticized for its lack of female promotions, the personnel position was quickly offered to Francesca. Nothing had changed in the year she’d been in the position. She proposed mentoring programs for female hires, direct recruitment for internships through the local universities, job rotation schemes. All her suggestions sat untouched on the desks of upper management, while she was carted out at meetings as a shining example, in a skirt and heels, of changes afoot. A title and an office with a window seemed a small exchange for the frustrations accompanying her new position. Francesca picked up her glass and took a long sip, the wine soothing her nerves as it worked its way into her blood stream. She cut a piece of her steak. “What pisses me off most is that he ordered me to get up and lie through my teeth during some stupid staff day they’ve invented. Then I have to field questions.” “Sven’s a bastard anyhow,” Philippe shook his head and reached for the remote control. The European Cup match was about to begin. Francesca panicked for a moment when he pointed the remote at the television and pressed the ‘on’ button, realizing she had his undivided attention for only a few seconds more. “Even he has to realize he’s only there thanks to his wife’s connections,” said Philippe. “The thing is, he really doesn’t,” she said. “He’s managed to convince himself that he somehow deserves it. He is a man, after all…” But Philippe was no longer listening. The notes of the first national anthem sounded in the stadium; the soccer players stood with their hands resting on the shoulders of the young children who had led them out to the pitch. Millions of male eyes across Europe and beyond—including Philippe’s—were locked onto their television screens. In living rooms across Europe, wives and girlfriends simply dissolved into thin air, mid-sentence. Francesca took another long sip of her wine. Her husband would resurface in another two hours. For now, she needed to concentrate on how to not make an ass of herself at the staff event planned for the following day. * Francesca entered her office, shedding the fitted jacket that restricted her breathing and kicking off her pumps as she sank down into her desk chair. She clicked into her e-mail. A moment later, she desperately searched the carpeted floor with her toes to find her cast-off left shoe as Sven’s hulking figure filled her doorframe. “Not exactly the rosy picture I was hoping for, Francesca. I thought you women were good at dotting your ‘i’s with flowers and constructing the convincing fairy tale from nothing.” Sven crossed his arms over his adequate belly. He’d put on weight in the last few months. Perhaps she should be grateful for her ho-hum career advancement. “Not quite what I was expecting when I asked you to speak today.” Sven’s eyes narrowed. Francesca successfully located her shoe. She rose and walked around the desk, standing before Sven and crossing her arms across her trim stomach. She met Sven’s beady little eyes with a confident stare. “What did you expect, exactly, Sven? Should I have lied? I told them we were making progress…and, between us, we all know what a load that is.” Francesca saw the set of his jaw change. She sensed his anger. “You know, not everyone is as pleased as I’ve been with your promotion. You have to demonstrate to the naysayers that you’re more of a team player. In the future, if you’re not able to do what I request, just let me know in advance.” He paused, and she sensed the danger in his angry glare. “I can always find someone else who can deliver.” He turned his bulky frame to leave but paused at the doorway and looked over his shoulder. “I’m not as cynical as you are, Francesca. I know I have a lot of talented women working under me.” She gave him a tight smile before he turned and walked out the door. I’m sure you do, Sven. But all the work that Sheila from accounts does ‘under you’ does not reflect what most women associate with professional development. Francesca returned to her desk and slumped down in the chair kneading her temples with her fingers. Her headache had returned. * The next day, Francesca sat at her desk, speaking to several young women from the organization. She’d been charged with developing the new gender policy and wanted views from a wide range of staff members. Before she met with senior staff, Francesca was eager to consult with the most junior women, whose solid academic credentials and impressive skills didn’t seem to be translating into tangible career growth. The session had just gotten underway when Sven barged in without knocking. “What’s going on? Planning a hen night?” Francesca bit her lip and breathed deeply through her nose before speaking. “What can I do for you, Sven?” “Bit of an emergency, actually. Ladies, could I ask you to clear out?” They picked up their purses and filed out. Effectively undermined in thirty seconds flat. “I’ve been summoned for an urgent meeting outside, and you know Françoise is home on sick leave. I’ve had to send that worthless little temp packing.”It probably didn’t help the poor girl’s chances that she was unattractive and about as round as you are. “I’m in a bind. The Commissioner should be stopping by later this morning, and I’m also expecting a delivery. It’s important.” Francesca tilted her head, examining him closely. “Please tell me you’re not saying what I think you are. You want me to be your secretary this morning?” “Just for a few hours. Put a follow-me on your phone line and check your e-mails from Françoise’s desk.” “You’re serious?” Francesca could hear her voice rising. “I imagine you’ve already asked Helmut and Carlos before approaching me?” “Damn it. The old sexism charge. I’m asking you.” His eyes made it clear he wasn’t really asking. And Francesca knew that the more junior Helmut or Carlos would never be expected to do the same. “Are you a team player or not?” It was the cold stare that got her. She knew she couldn’t risk riling him again. Silently, Francesca reached for her purse, cursing herself for her inability to tell him to go to hell. She followed him and slinked into the secretary’s workstation, trying to ignore the looks cast her way across the open space. “Now,” said Sven. He looked at his watch, not bothering to meet her gaze. “Commissioner Durand shouldn’t arrive earlier than noon, and I’ll be back by then. If he does show up earlier, just get him a coffee and keep him chatting. You’re good at that sort of thing.”Fetch his coffee? Francesca felt her blood pressure rise and sensed the telltale throbbing behind her eyes. “Now, the DVD should arrive special delivery. My wife will be stopping by to pick it up at eleven sharp. The video producer at my son’s soccer match promised to get it here by half past ten, at the latest.” “Your son’s soccer match?” Francesca struggled to control the hard edge in her rising voice. Several colleagues swiveled their heads. Sven noticed it too. His look was harsh. “Shhh. Keep it down, will you? I suppose you think it’s beneath you, but this is what teamwork is all about.” He turned his back to her and muttered a sarcastic thanks. A waft of cologne filled her nostrils as he strode away. Important meeting outside. Yeah, right. It’s a quick rendezvous with Sheila in some sleazy little hotel. Philippe would kill me if he knew I got roped into this again. Francesca tried to concentrate on finalizing documents, answering e-mails, and ignoring the smirks as staff members passed by her new workstation. She imagined the cracks being made about demotions and tried, as best she could, to push them from her mind. Just before ten-thirty, a deliveryman came, collected her signature, and handed her a manila envelope. “Merci,” she said, before flinging it aside. The flap must have been secured poorly. A plastic case crashed to the floor. “Damn,” she said. Picking it up, she observed the cracked case. She removed the DVD from its container hoping it wasn’t damaged and popped it into the drive. Let’s see the reason I’m stuck here playing secretary all morning, waiting for the fat little Viking’s shining moment of glory, his shot at bench warmer stardom. For little Sven—she’d never bothered to learn his real name—was built like a graceless bull. Just like his dad. The DVD charged in the player. She heard distinct groans emitting from her speakers, and she popped her headset into the jack when heads swiveled her way. She’d probably only made things worse. Her colleagues would think she spent her office hours watching soft-core porn. Francesca slipped the headsets on, rummaging through her purse for her tissues. But this wasn’t background noise or sports groans. What the hell was it? Her eyes flicked instinctively to the screen, and she immediately felt the urge to vomit. She blinked twice. There on her computer screen was a flabby, naked Sven kneeling on red silk sheets and pounding on his chest like a gorilla. A stethoscope hung around his neck. She rubbed her eyes in horror. Please say this is a sick hallucination. I’d rather be going out of my mind than seeing this for real. But even after rubbing her eyes, the horrifying images still flickered on the screen, the nauseating sounds of Sven crying “Oh, baby!” filled her ears. And there was Sheila, in all her silicone glory, wearing some sexy little G-string and--what the hell was that—a white bustier with a little red cross on it, a pert little nurse’s cap perched high on her bleached blonde hair. Oh, yuck! “Come to the doctor!” Sven bounced up and down on the bed with mounting excitement, and Francesca feared she would retch all over poor Françoise’s perfectly organized desk. This was just too much to take. Sven was hateful enough with his clothes on. No woman should have to be exposed to this. She popped the DVD out of the player, and slipped it back into its manila envelope. Still, as disgusting as it was, Francesca felt the first stirrings of respect for the woman she’d written off as a peroxide-headed bimbo. Blackmailing the boss. She had to hand it to Sheila. When she looked up, Sven’s wife towered over her. “Oh, hello! You startled me.” Francesca struggled to stand up and shake hands, willing her voice to remain calm. “How nice to see you again.” “Oh, Francesca. Tell me this isn’t the effect of the layoffs Sven wanted to implement. You haven’t been downgraded, have you? I told him how much I value your work with the agency. I just want you to know this has nothing to do with me.” Her big blue eyes were almost childlike in their innocence. Francesca was confused for a moment. Her mind raced. Layoffs? Sven was restructuring? Come to think of it, she had heard rumors, although she’d been quick to dismiss them. Why, that little bastard! She smiled at Sven’s pretty wife and prayed her voice would sound genuine. “Oh, no. Just being a team player today and helping out.” She ensured her smile appeared perfectly sincere as she picked up the manila envelope and handed it to Sven’s wife. “Here you go. Sven gave me strict orders that you watch it right away. No need to wait for him. Said your little star is the next Ibrahimović.” “Thank you, Francesca,” said the cuckolded wife with a smile. Francesca watched her walk to the bank of elevators. A deliveryman exited the elevator and Sven’s wife entered. He turned to admire her tall, regal figure. The doors closed. The deliveryman approached Francesca’s desk and she noted a smile of appreciation still on his lips. Sven’s wife had that effect on men. “Special delivery. A sports DVD.” He read from his clipboard. “I’m told it’s urgent.” He handed Francesca a packet. “Could I ask you to sign here?” “With pleasure,” said Francesca. She scratched her pen across the paper and hummed a tune. Her head hadn’t felt so clear in ages. There was no gnawing pain lurking behind her eyes, no pressure at her temples. She breathed in deeply, then looked into the deliveryman’s eyes and smiled as she handed back the clipboard. “Don’t ever forget that the cream always rises to the top, okay?”

Kimberly Sullivan is an American living with her family in Rome, Italy, where she works in international development. Her short stories have been published in various journals and anthologies. She is currently working on a novel. kimberlysullivan.wordpress.com

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